We Are All Alike, And We Love

There Is No Gardening Without Humility

So, Timely You Came, And Well You Chose, You Came When Most Needed, My Winter Rose. From The Snow I Pluck You, And Fondly Press Your Leaves 'twixt The Leaves Of My Leaflessness.

A Garden That One Makes Oneself Becomes Associated With One’s Personal History And That Of One’s Friends, Interwoven With One’s Tastes, Preferences And Character And Constitutes A Sort Of Unwritten Autobiography.

Imagination In Poetry, As Distinguished From Mere Fancy Is The Transfiguring Of The Real Or Actual To The Ideal.

No One Can Rightly Call His Garden His Own Unless He Himself Made It.